Speak Now
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: AU one-shot: no rebels in The One.—It's Maxon and Kriss's wedding day, and America's invited. She mourns her loss of Maxon, still in love with him. Celeste's pep talk to cheer her up gives her a brilliantly horrible idea—what's horrifying the world on national TV one more time to objecting to Maxon's wedding?


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection.**

 **Here's an AU one-shot; basically, no rebels killing everyone, and Maxon is gonna marry Kriss (or is he?); hope y'all like it!**

 _~ America's POV ~_

Anne, Mary, and Lucy step back from their latest piece of art. I wear their last masterpiece; Maxon's wedding is a last hurrah, and perhaps the last time I'll ever see them.

Mary smiles, dabbing tears at her eyes. "You look beautiful, Miss."

Anne nods properly. "We are proud to have cared for you for your time in the palace, Miss."

Lucy looks up from her hankie, her eyes pink and her chin wobbling. "You'll always be a princess to me, Miss."

I hug each girl before they leave the room. It's unspoken that these last few moments I have to have alone, by myself.

The white door closes behind them, leaving me in a purple-painted room, with a window with its panes thrown open and its white curtains flying in the warm wind. The sun shines out of a bright blue sky, pouring down on a perfect day. Maxon's wedding day will be perfect.

Except for one thing: the bride. He's marrying Kriss.

So everything's not perfect.

It's all wrong.

And it's all my fault.

I see my beautiful dress fall down my slim body; my maids know me, know how to extenuate my curves; the skirt drapes over my knees with blue lace; it's all blue, of varying hues, but all along the lines of baby blue. Reminiscent of my days in the Selection. The sleeves are cut short so I don't suffer in the warm Angeles air, but also good for showing off my white arms. Proper Anne somehow let exposing cleavage make an addition. I have a sneaking feeling that the three feel personally hurt for me that I didn't win, and now they rebel against Prince Maxon by making his unchosen more beautiful than his bride.

I couldn't ask for more loyal maids.

I sit down on a cushioned settee and cover my face with my hands. Anne made up my face with excellent makeup, showing off a skill I didn't know she possessed, but I fear that any crying will make it all worth nothing.

Well, it's worth nothing anyway. What's the point of looking beautiful, to look cold and hard and indifferent, like Celeste? To sit next to her and watch the love of my life ruin our lives because of me?

I'm so sorry, Maxon.

I never should have engaged with Aspen at all. The moment he stepped into the palace, I should've ignored his attentions, his presence. But he was around every shadow, in a nagging corner of my mind. He was familiar and he knew me, but so did Maxon. And I risked everything I had with Maxon by breaking a tried-and-true Selection rule.

I got off easy. I didn't get engaged to Maxon. He chose, before the eyes of the whole nation, Kriss. His ring shines on her tan hand. His smile is for her only.

I got off easy. I could've been easily killed, or caned as a minimum, like Marlee and Carter. Even Aspen was spared—spared retribution for breaking a rule, taking what was the prince's, and breaking my heart. Once I knew Maxon would've caned the man who broke my heart. But he didn't even do that to him.

Aspen was drafted to the New Asian war.

Maxon didn't tell me that. Aspen's mother did.

And I hate Maxon for it.

But I am also grateful to him. Aspen and I should've been killed for our law-breaking. And yet Maxon, who tightened his jaw and refused to meet my eyes, allowed us both to live.

Still. I don't think I got off easy. I've learned that some heartbreak is more painful than death possibly could be.

Maxon hurt me more letting me off scot-free rather than killing me. For months I cried myself to sleep. I was in a depression, coming out of the grey, cloudy winter of Carolina. The air hung with grief; mixed with my own in losing Maxon was the merciless reminder of my dead father's absence. Even playing with the tiny fingers of my niece, Astra, couldn't make me smile. Kenna smiled weakly, May tried to smile too brightly, and Mom's smile was rare. But mine was simply absent.

The TV remained off except for mandatory viewing; I was exposed like a raw nerve to all the wedding preparations and festivities on the _Report_ ; Kriss's enjoyment, King Clarkson's obvious joy at his choice winning, and Maxon. I wished I could say he was faking happiness all the time, but my heart ached as I saw the truth—sometimes, more than I wished, she made him genuinely happy. She made mine happy.

I'd gotten many boys at my door wanting my hand, to go on a date, or at least to meet me. But I didn't want my celebrity status here in Carolina. Mom fended them off, no longer eager as she was at the beginning of the Selection. The reporters were shooed off the front lawn, the fans wanting autographs ignored. But one pair of people Mom couldn't fend off was a pair of royal guards one spring day, delivering an official summons to the palace.

It was a wedding invitation.

Kriss invited most of the Selected, included most of the Elite. Even me.

The guards waited for an answer in my living room, being entertained by my nervous mother serving tea. May waited anxiously outside my door. She knocked occasionally and whispered, "America, they need to take back an answer."

I cuddled in blankets on my bed, staring at the pile of love letters written in the prince's own hand on my dresser.

The jar with the stuck penny was still on my table, as if nothing more than a memorial.

I finally opened the door, after hours of thinking. "Tell them I'll be there."

I know I have no chance to be with Maxon anymore; was it a mistake to come back here, to the palace? It's a strange déjà vu. The rooms are the same, if more decorated. Silvia is colder, because it's no doubt she knows. My maids cried and hugged me upon my return.

I haven't seen the royal parents; I don't want to. King Clarkson's eyes would burn daggers in me, but I would be the most ashamed to see Queen Amberly. She wanted me as a daughter-in-law, but knows what happened. I failed her and me and Maxon most miserably.

I've seen Maxon only as a spectator, a face in a crowd. He talked at his rehearsal dinner, with Kriss beaming at his right side. He didn't meet my eyes. I wonder if he knows I'm even here.

But I am here. I am here in a fancy dress on his wedding day, as one of a large number of wedding guests.

This is a mistake. But a mistake I have to go through with.

"America?"

I turn to the door. "Come in."

Celeste walks in; she wears a stunning cranberry-colored dress, with her long dark hair in a bun.

"You look beautiful," I say.

"Not as pretty as you. You'll outshine the bride and make Maxon reconsider his choices, I swear," Celeste says. She sits next to me with folded hands, and bumps me with her shoulder. "He's an idiot, you know. And it's a double-standard. I mean, I was kissing him when he was kissing you. But WHOA! a Selected does the same thing? Off with her head! Or at least, let's scar her hands for life," Celeste says. I know she's trying to cheer me up, but it's not helping me as much as I wish it would.

"Still. He trusted me. And I betrayed his trust. We had a lot of trust issues," I say. We did, mostly on my part. He gave me so much leniency to get over Aspen with; why couldn't I have gotten over Aspen, proved to Maxon I love him? Because I love him so much my heart pains my chest; I don't want to face his wedding. It's a slap in the face.

Was it Kriss's idea to send me a wedding invitation, or Maxon's?

Celeste bristles. "I'm on your side, by the way, Ames."

I smile. "I know."

She takes my hand and squeezes. "Let's get through this; face the music, which I guess you do a lot." She looks me in the eyes; her eyelashes brush her cheekbones, thick with mascara. "Let's show him up and have the best damn time we've ever had."

I smile, which contrasts with the tears in my eyes.

Celeste's determined, fearless smile fades. "You still do love him, though?" she asks quietly.

I don't trust my voice to not break, so I just nod.

Celeste frowns, thinking to herself. "Then . . . if you're going to do anything crazy, I'll be there to support you." She leans closer and insists, "Just don't stay like this. Being miserable and throwing yourself a pity-party isn't attractive. Pick getting over it, or doing something about it. Got it, Ames?" She squeezes my hand more and we stand up. "Whatever you choose, you got this. Okay?"

"Okay." I say that with less conviction than I feel. For while Celeste drags me into the parade of guests getting in line for the limos to the church, a sudden, scary idea blooms in my head. It's a horrible, horrible idea. The consequences could be fatal. I could ruin my life.

But I could save it.

Celeste looks all interested in this wedding, but I know what she just did. She planted a rebellious seed in me.

Well, I've always had a rebellious seed in me. She just poured water on it.

As we enter the limousine, I catch a glimpse of the white-dressed bride stepping into her personal one. What she doesn't know doesn't plague her happy mind.

She doesn't know I'm about to ruin her wedding.

* * *

I sit with the rest of the Elite, on the groom's side of the church. The irony.

Natalie, in bright bubble gum pink, cocks her head, looking in the distance. Celeste engages in conversation with Elise, who's surprised and caught off-guard. And of course, Marlee isn't here.

I concentrate on the group of Fives performing on a far corner of the stage. On the girl playing the violin, playing the music to fill the room as the guests also fill the room and the camera crew finishes with last minute additions. She moves and sways with the music; her dark skin plays with the white of her dress; she is so concentrated, so lost in the music, that she barely notices she's playing the prelude to Prince Maxon's wedding.

I wish I could be her.

I played, and he heard me, once. But this time I would close my eyes and imagine he wasn't there.

The church is tan-colored, full of stained-glass windows; lots of dusty sunlight falls over the stage. The priest in his traditional robes talks off microphone with a cousin or two of the Schreaves. He occasionally says a word to Maxon, who's off with his eyes on the ground, scratching it with the stub of his toe.

I like to think he knows I'm here, and we're both ignoring each other. Then we're equal.

But my eyes fall on him far more than I wish. The violinist's musical spell lets me go and look at him clearly, longingly, like I haven't allowed myself to do in months. I study him in weakness, to see if he is worth it. Worth all this pain, self-blame, crying, and senseless heartbreak.

I see every inch of him, that nervous groom. I see the scared boy who tries to make his ruthless father proud of him. I sees a boy who loves his mother, who in turn treasures him. I see a prince who tried to please every single one of the thirty-five young women who walked through his door.

I see Maxon, my Maxon. I alternate between the cold Maxon, who ignored me and made me understand that Kriss was picked because of my screw-up, because I broke his heart, and the Maxon who wrote me love letters, who sent strawberry tarts to my little sister, who listened to the hardships of my childhood, who welcomed my family into his palace, and welcomed me. I see Maxon having his first kiss with me, tentative and sweet and amateur and young, and I see him making me dizzy, and dancing with me, and cuddling me in his arms until dawn broke.

I see a future ruler of our nation, and the love of my life. I see the generous, warm, loving man, in that nervous, cold-shoulder groom.

And I love him. And I ruined our lives, yes, but I'm not about to have him ruin ours more.

The ceremony starts and sweat gathers in my palms. Not very attractive. I sit on my hands and restrain myself from moving. Celeste gives me a side-glance at my strange behavior, but focuses on the captivating ceremony. The Wedding March, a familiar song, plays; members of the royal family walk down the aisle and sit in the pews in front of us. Then a combination of Aunt Adele's children and Kriss's extended family play the parts of the flower girl, ringbearer, and bridesmaids.

I see the cameras sidling around, capturing the faces of the audience. It focuses on me at one point, and I ignore it the best I can. I know Gavril is somewhere providing voice-over. Everyone knows that I was in second place; I know Mom's sitting on the edge of our worn couch at home, that May feels so sorry for me. I won't break before the nation, or my mother and sister.

This might be the last time they see me, though. I hope not.

The cameras find a much more coveted subject to focus on: the bride. Everyone stands up, as if on cue. I fumble to my feet; Celeste's face turns sour. She and Kriss were clashing opposites, and she doesn't like her for taking Maxon away from me.

Kriss is so gorgeous, though. In a blooming, lacy silk wedding dress, with her long brown hair tied out of the way. She wears a tiara on her head; she won't receive the crown until she steps up to the altar. Her face is covered by a see-through white veil; sunflowers explode in the ribbon-tied bouquet grasped by her white-gloved hands.

She's beautiful. What I am about to do?

My eyes resist my violent urging to keep on the bride: they go instantly to Maxon.

His brown eyes feast on her as she walks down the aisle at a cool, elegant pace.

And suddenly his eyes meet mine.

And we stare at each other too long, neither wanting to be the first to look away.

I was going to act alone, but now, I see something in his eyes: he not only remembers me completely, but wants me. And he is rooting for me.

He turns back to his bride, and I swallow.

My life hangs in the balance as Kriss is given away by an uncle. Her father no doubt died as a rebel.

"Please be seated," the priest orders pleasantly.

Everyone does; I do, but my eyes never leave Maxon and Kriss. Their hands fold together as they face each other in front of the priest; no one could be paying closer attention to them than me.

Celeste sits on the edge of the pew, anxious, excited. She's braced, unlike everyone else. Especially me.

The priest's microphone blares his voice to the entire cathedral and the entire world; am I about to make myself a fool on globally cast TV? I'll go down in royal infamy, once again.

"We are gathered here together to honor and behold Prince Maxon of Illéa to be bond forevermore in holy matrimony to Lady Kriss Ambers of Columbia. All of us watched in anticipation to see who would win the prince's Selection, and the nation cheered and welcomed Lady Kriss as the future princess. The time has come to join the Lady and the Prince together, and to coronate Lady Kriss. Now, if anyone has good reason or cause to prevent this holy, royal match today, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace."

That's it. That's my cue. Of course some heads look around. I see Nicoletta mischievously looking off for someone to stand up and speak now.

I stand up. Shaking, but up, straight, on my high heels. I'm the tallest in the audience.

I had all eyes on me a lot when I was in the Selection. But the staring eyes here are accompanied by more shocked gasps, looks of horror, and silent swearing than at any other time I pulled off something shockingly stupid on live TV.

"I object!" I yell. My voice comes out small, but I urge it to be louder. I will be assertive and make sure everyone hears and knows.

I know King Clarkson's calling for security, that Kriss is open-mouthed with disbelief, that my mom is probably having a heart attack this very second. But I ignore them all, and I look at Maxon.

He stares at me, hard. Looks at Kriss, who whispers something to him. And then back at me.

He drops her hand and runs to me, as fast as he can, like he knows that our world depends on it.

Because it does.

Grey-clothed palace guards who once guarded me, protected me from rebels, now go after me, because I run to Maxon. Suddenly the few feet between us is a thousand miles, and I need him. I need him so badly that if I can't hold his hand I will drown.

"What is the meaning of this!?" King Clarkson yells. His call from the stage kills the white noise of the congregation echoing in the tall ceiling, and all fall silent.

Except for Maxon. He's in front of me before the guards can drag me away and has a hand on my waist. His other holds my chin, like I'm too delicate. I lean into his hand, him, whom I've missed for so long, and feel his trembling warmth. "America, what have I done?" he whispers.

"I'm so sorry," I say, feeling tears, "I love you. I'm so sorry. I love you."

"STOP!" King Clarkson shouts.

Maxon wrestles with himself, and withholds from kissing my lips to face his father. He clutches my hands in his like he'll never let me go. "I won't, Father. I can't."

"Maxon." A small voice says his name with aching sadness; Kriss is two seconds from falling to her knees. "Today's our wedding day. It's mine, it's _yours_!"

"No. No, today's not my wedding day," Maxon says. He pulls me to his side, hissing at the guards, "Not one of you touches her." We stand apart from everyone else, all cringing away to watch in interested horror.

I see Celeste smirking.

"No. This is your wedding day, Maxon. You're marrying Kriss; you decided that. Will you back down now?" King Clarkson walks purposely, menacingly, towards us.

"Yes, I will. Because Kriss is my second choice, the choice _you_ want me to have. This isn't your marriage, Father, and it isn't the monarchy's. It's _my_ marriage, and _my_ choice, and America's the choice I want to live with the rest of my life." He faces me and says, "I'm so sorry, America," and he kisses the top of my head, like he's bestowing an irremovable blessing.

"Maxon—!" King Clarkson yells on national television, and I'm glad the world gets to see a taste of him.

"Clarkson!" A new voice joins, a loud, chastising one. Queen Amberly stands up in golden-brown glory, her hair in curls, her gold crown shining in the sunlight. She walks to him, her gown shifting around her ankles. Everyone watches her and she moves with such grace. She weaves her elbow in his arm and she whispers something to him. Their conversation is patchy by her mouth hidden from view and his head bent, but it ends with both of them looking at their son—and me—in the face.

"Maxon," Amberly says, walking to him and holding his hand. She smiles a little bittersweetly, with tears in her eyes. "Don't make a decision you'll regret. Marry who you love." Her eyes slide to mine when she says that, and we both know what she means.

She rejoins King Clarkson, who fumes, but says no more.

Maxon breathes and studies my face with his loving brown eyes. Then he drops my hand and hurries back to the altar, where Kriss is fallen in a puddle of dress. He takes her hand and helps her up; she lets him do so begrudgingly, as she sniffles.

He says very quietly, "I'm so sorry," and kisses her hand.

Then he runs to me and holds me close, and kisses my lips like he's been yearning to do that for his entire engagement. I bend with the power of his body and match him. Oh, how I missed him.

He whispers, "Thank you. If you didn't object, I would've."

I grin. "One of my better bad ideas."

"My favorite of them, actually," he whispers, before kissing me with closed eyes once more.

* * *

I don't end up imprisoned, or caned, or killed.

I stole a happy ending from Kriss, but one that Maxon eagerly, earnestly, wanted to give me—

—Because I spoke now.

* * *

 **Ta-da! It's inspired by a certain TS song. :)**

 **Thanks for reading! (Review? :))**


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